


When I Wake Up, I'm Afraid

by higgsburied



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Anxiety, Death, Gore, Hallucinations, I don't deal with with subjectivity., I guess? That's kind of subjective., M/M, Swearing, he doesn't stay dead, repeated death actually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-05-12 20:56:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5680507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/higgsburied/pseuds/higgsburied
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson's starting to remember things. Things he really probably shouldn't be remembering.</p><p>!! ON HIATUS UNTIL MY COMPUTER COMES BACK !!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _you're too mean, I don't like you - fuck you anyway_  
>  _you make me wanna scream at the top of my lungs_  
>  _this hurts but I won't fight you - and you suck anyways_  
>  _you make me wanna die_  
>   
>  So the Maxwell/Wilson is gonna kinda be...in later chapters...  
> I'm not really sure how to describe where I'm going with this/what I'm doing with this, but there is a plan.  
> Title and those lyrics come from [The Neighbourhood song "Afraid."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GsLMoxa6xZ0)

It was starting to get dark. Pitch black. He had to wrap his arms around his small frame to keep from shivering as he trekked through the wilderness. He couldn’t remember where he’d set up his last camp, and he supposed it didn’t matter – except for the science machine, there was nothing for him to go back to. All that was necessary he had with him in his pockets, and what was that? A few stones, some pieces of flint. He’d run out of logs at the last base, somewhere near the strange wooden box and dilapidated wall. Wilson huffed, casting his eyes out over the landscape. He needed some twigs at least, something to light on fire, to make a torch…

“Shit.” He froze in his tracks as oppressive night blanketed him, snuffing out his field of vision. He heard the hiss of a spider and stood perfectly still, heart pounding in his chest. _Maybe it won’t notice m-_

Wilson screamed involuntarily as something sharp pierced his skin. Was it one of those dreaded spiders, or something else? Things seemed blurry no matter where he turned, a disproportionate number of eyes staring out at him and his field of vision was waning. Something hit his legs and he stumbled, knees hitting ground hard. His fingers dug into wet mud, caking underneath his fingernails. Something spiked, tearing through the back of his shirt and he gasped, pressing a hand to his chest and – “Oh, god.” Whatever he’d been impaled with had gone straight through his chest.

He felt blood trickling from his mouth as whatever offending instrument was removed, leaving his wound open and gaping. Air rushed to his lungs and his head swam, arms giving out beneath him. _This is it_ , he thought, mind hysterical. _I’m going to die here, on this stupid bloody island, alone and caked in mud._

He wasn’t wrong.

* * *

Maxwell thought that if he had to watch the small scientist die one more time, he might be physically ill. He turned his head from the scene playing out in front of him as blood pooled out under his tattered, filthy vest. The worst part was how he always died with his eyes open, unnatural, eyes glazing over but still reflecting firelight, or the light from the sun. A man cut down in the prime of his life, over and over again, for an eternity.

Maxwell almost felt sorry for him. He didn’t have a choice, though; he had to crush those feelings, that sympathy. He couldn’t let him move on and he couldn’t let him leave. Wilson’s body elevated, glowing, shadows wrapping around his torso. Maxwell could hear the sick sounds of bones snapping into place, sinews and flesh growing around the gaping hole in his chest, blood drying and flaking off the younger man’s body. He had to be brought back to the beginning, world spinning under him with his head lolling like a ragdoll to the side. Scenery flashed by, nauseating, dizzying, and Maxwell had to close his eyes to make it stop.

He almost hated himself for standing up, for lighting that cigar, for the words dripping out of his mouth like poison gas. “Say pal,” he says, somehow softer than before. “You don’t look so good.”

* * *

Wilson had the feeling that he’d been here before. He pushed himself up, chest and stomach and head hurting. He didn’t know how he got here, or why this should feel so familiar. He looked around at his surroundings and couldn’t conjure up any memories, just feelings of _This is not new. This is a cycle_.

He looked to the sky, trying to determine which way was north, idly wondering if it was even important, if it even mattered. _I have some place to get back to_ , he thought to himself, then wondered where the idea came from. He shook his head. That couldn’t possibly be true. He’d never been here before. He couldn’t remember being here before. What could he remember?

…Nothing. No, wait – A door. A door in his lab. A door in his lab, lightening, someone laughing at him.

Or was that a dream? If this was the real world – or was this the dream? Wilson sighed, rubbing his forehead. He could hear the screams of animals all around him. He wasn’t sure how much longer he had until night fell, but he didn’t want to be caught unprepared. He started off, picking up nearly everything he came across, shoving it into his pockets until he could barely walk from the weight. “Time to make camp, before it gets too late.”

He didn’t think, simply working quickly. He didn’t stop to look at what he’d built until everything was done, a victory noise sounding in his head. And he stared at what he created, confused because he didn’t know how he’d done any of it. Wilson stared at his own two hands, then at the base he’d put together. A fire pit? A sleeping bag? A…machine that looked like a gobbler? He touched it, thoughts flashing before his mind. “It breaks objects down to their scientific components,” he recited to himself.

He frowned. How did he know that? What was he…supposed to do with it? More to the point, how did he make it? This wasn’t like anything he could recall (not that he could recall much) being in his lab at home.

Had he done this before?

He tried to remember, but everything hurt. His head spun, and the further he searched the more it felt like he was splitting open.

He sat by the fire, heel of his hand pressing hard against his forehead. He had to remember, he _needed_ to remember, there had to be something there – so why wasn’t anything coming to mind?

Well, he could cook. That he knew. It wasn’t good, necessarily; the berries became mush, but it kept his stomach from convulsing angrily. He felt sore, like he’d been punched or run through. “It must just be the impact, the fall, the travel, however I got here,” he muttered to himself.

The fire was large enough to last him until morning. He could sleep now.

* * *

 

There was a radio he kept on a shelf in his lab. He’d had it for so long, he couldn’t remember who had given it to him or where he’d found it. It only picked up a few stations, most of them plagued with static. He kept it on for background noise, for the illusion of company, as he always worked alone.

Then one day, it started talking to him.


	2. Chapter 2

Wilson awoke to the sounds of raspy barks and teeth snapping shut violently.

“Hounds!” He didn’t stop to think about how he knew that. He shot up, grabbing his belongings quickly and sprinting from the site, not looking back until the only sound he could hear was his own labored breathing.

He took a second to catch his breath. His stomach hurt – not just aching with hunger, but sore from exertion. And his chest, his chest felt like…

 _You’re being ridiculous, there’s nothing there_ , he told himself even as he undid the top buttons of his vest. He pulled his shirt open, pressing fingers against his skin. He could have sworn that – it certainly felt like –

He shook his head, resting a hand over his heart, feeling it beat erratically. Feeling like he’d been here before. Wilson pressed his forehead against a tree, grinding his head against the rough and flaking bark, trying to ground himself in reality. _No, this is the real world. Stop getting lost in the ‘maybes’. Stop getting lost in the ‘what ifs’. It won’t help you now_.

Wilson stood up straight, breathing deeply. “Make a list, make a list,” he muttered to himself. “What do I know?”

He looked up to the sky. “I don’t see clouds. So I don’t have to worry about that now. Hopefully. Maxwell –“ He caught himself, eyes going a little fuzzy. _M-Maxwell? Who’s -? Oh, yes. **Him**. I hate that guy_. Wilson pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead, fingers pressing into his hairline, closing his eyes. _He’s the reason I’m here. That’s – That seems impossible. But it’s not. It can’t be. It can’t be impossible, because it’s true_.

Wilson raised a hand, bringing down hard across his own face. “Knock it off! I can’t – I need to – to –“ he huffed. “S-supplies, what did I grab? What do I have with me?” He dug his hands into his pockets, pulling out mushy berries, a makeshift torch, flint, cut stones? “I thought I had more than this,” Wilson mumbled. “Didn’t I – Didn’t I have –“

No, no, not this again. His chest convulsing again, like his chest cavity closing in, like bones piercing his heart and lungs. Bile from nothing on his stomach rising up in his throat. He was losing it, he was going mad. Maybe he was already there.

“Why now? Why is this happening now? Why is this happening here?” He crouched, dropping the supplies in his hand, fingers curling in his hair against his scalp. “What’s different? What’s different? What’s –“ Something caught his eyes, blowing softly in wind.

He never felt so manic, leaping up to tear the darker petals from the ground. “Foul things! You’re doing this!” _This doesn’t make any sense, Wilson, get a hold of yourself_. “You’re a sign of evil,” he snapped, grinding a trail of them under his heel. _Look at where you’re going, Wilson, you’re going to get lost_. “No! No! No! Away with all of you!”

He was shouting now, fists curled. He turned suddenly, thinking he saw something approaching. Something strange. Something not quite there. A monster.

_It’s just shadows. There’s nothing there, Wilson. It’s just your imagination._

_Now stop. Where are you?_

He turned, spinning. “These trees look all the same. This ground looks all the same.” He spun slower, infinitesimal steps, staring at the ground as he moved. “I picked it up. My trail, leading me here. But I must have left footsteps, I must have –“

A block of wood, and Wilson felt something in his vision stirring again. He couldn’t measure, couldn’t guess on sight, how long it was. It wasn’t planks, wasn’t boards, like he’d found next to skeletons, next to bones, (when had he ever found that?). But he had seen this before. This was burned into his brain. Tattooed against his eyelids. There was never a reprieve, training himself not to sleep or to sleep with his eyes pulled open if he absolutely had to.

And it was here. _Again_.

Laughs were dripping from his mouth. He had to hold his hair, hold onto himself. “Hallucinating. I must be.” The sounds were getting louder, the whirring the door was making and the sharp, high-pitched barks of laughter escaping Wilson’s mouth. “Why is there a door in the middle of the forest? WHY is there a DOOR in the MIDDLE of the FOREST?”

Wilson sat on the ground, mind hysterical. He wasn’t sure anymore if he was laughing or crying, chest heaving. Tendrils of something like smoke rose from the ground. He could feel them gliding against his back, trying to surround him.

He felt he might vomit. “N-no. I’m not sure –“ _I don’t want to fall for that again_.

The wind was coming in, but it didn’t push the shadows away. They were pulling now, more urgent, against Wilson’s sleeves, trying to tug him down. “Go away.” He wanted to shout, but the energy just wasn’t there. “Haven’t you tortured me en-“

There was another noise, another horrible one, one that was coming up on him. Spiders, and he didn’t know from which direction. Everything just felt – bad, urgent, like it was closing in on him. Like being pushed in one direction from all sides.

He didn’t have to stumble, didn’t remember standing. His hand had barely touched the door, and he was going back under. 

* * *

He couldn’t remember how the first conversation started. He had a vague memory of a voice on the radio asking if anyone could hear him. And sleep deprived, Wilson had said “Yes,” without really thinking about it.

Then he’d shook his head at himself. “That was a rhetorical question,” he muttered.

“No,” the radio replied. “It wasn’t.”

 

* * *

The typical modus operandi involved Maxwell, some version of him, greeting those who entered. Waking them up, because going through doorway – the portal – knocked you on your ass.

It was supposed to. It was a reset. But somehow, here, it didn’t. And Wilson just walked through.

Maxwell crossed his legs, leaning back. This was different. Interesting, and probably bad. It meant things were changing, going out of his control.

And he didn’t seem to need instruction either. Wilson took the divining rod from its holder and kept running. As if he knew what he needed, what he was looking for, where he was going.

“He couldn’t possibly.” The grip on his arms was tighter than usual, thorns digging in, puncturing veins. He’d been moving too often, inserting his assistance where it wasn’t meant to be.

So maybe, it was possible, he did know.


	3. !! UPDATE !!

Hey guys!! Sorry this isn't an actual chapter, not a story continuation. I just felt the need to let everyone know that my computer crash, and I lost everything I had on it. Including the next chapter for this fic and all the notes I had on it. So, until I get my computer back from the shop, I don't really have the energy to work on this. Especially since it means I don't have access to Steam...and playing Don't Starve was how I was getting a lot of inspiration for this.


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